


and she was wearing yellow

by louisaeve



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, Female Character of Color, Islam, Islamophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 08:25:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2303066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louisaeve/pseuds/louisaeve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Safiya is trying to make it, and she's not forgetting where she came from. Zayn's only got an almost memory of what home means, and homeland is a word he is trying to forget. Then he approaches Safiya, and the pair of them don't forget each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. InshAllaah

**Author's Note:**

There is a girl at this party with a bright yellow hijab on. 

Zayn's eyes find her immediately. At first he'd thought she was just another girl with a hat on, but no, the fabric is wrapped around her head in a way that he'd say was how the Arab girls wrap theirs. She's not though, he realises, he stares at her. With her lips and her eyes and her skin she's from the South. She's Indian, he reckons, and not just half. 

Of course, every time he tries to look away, to talk to Niall, whose with him and looking excited, he can't. He can't be excited about this indie party he's been invited to. Instead, he's caught staring at the cup in his hand, staring at the red plastic holding the alcohol he really shouldn't be having. That he knows is wrong, in his heart. He puts it down, on a table or bench, and tries to pull his eyes away from the girl in the yellow hijab. It's less of the fact that she's beautiful (although she is, undoubtedly so), and more of the fact that she's here, and is being loud in who she is, being determinedly Muslim. He's tempted to do something stupid, suddenly, because he feels like he's still a teenager, bringing his mates home to talk in his room, only his mother has interrupted him and he's praying that they don't say a word about what they were doing last night. She's not drinking at all, he notes. 

He swallows, and tries to focus on the girl Niall's talking to, a blonde who's got a bright smile. She reminds him of Perrie a bit, and that makes him think of how his parents are disappointed with him and how he doesn't care enough any more. He swallows, and then turns to Niall. "I just saw someone I know," he says. "I need to go say hey."

Niall nods, and turns back to the blonde, and Zayn moves away, trying not to feel guilty, because according to his father, they're not just strangers like he thinks. It's his father pressing against his mind that gives him the courage to take the steps towards her, as she talks to a girl with a big afro. "Salaam sister," he says, and the words are awkward in his mouth, they take up too much space, and this girl turns to him with wide eyes, and a sort of smile touches her lips, and looks at him. 

"Wa alaykum as salaam," the words that come out of her mouth are easy. She no doubt has to say them a lot, he reckons, to anyone who approaches her, because she wears hijab, and is noticeably Muslim. "You're from One Direction, right?"

"Zayn," he smiles, and the girl with the afro smiles slightly before, moving away. 

"I'm Safiya," she holds a hand out, and he shakes it, and she smiles brightly. "What's your first language?"

The question takes him a bit by surprise. She has a bright smile, and she's pretty, but she's not gorgeous, but the smile she has makes her seem like it. "Urdu," he says, swallowing, ignoring the fact that he hasn't spoken Urdu to anyone but his family in years, and never in open. 

"Yeah?" She grins. "I'm more of an Arabic girl myself," she winks, and it's a joke, he realises, even if he doesn't quite get it. He tries not to think about the fact that she's telling the world she's Muslim, she's Indian a lot more loudly than soft mutterings about his favourite Bollywood movie could ever. "So, what brings you hear?"

"My bandmate," he says. "He reckons this is more my scene than the rest of the parties we go to." 

"Yeah?" Safiya raises a brow. "This your kind of music?" 

"Yeah," Zayn swallows, and it's an admittance that the pop he sings, while he likes it well enough, isn't what he truly, truly loves. Isn't what he'd make by himself. "What about you?" 

"I'm an up and coming artist," Safiya raises a brow, and it's said in a tone which mimics journalists and column writers. "This is the type of music I do produce, even if it does have more Arabic riffs than the rest of this lot," she jerks her head, gesturing towards the rest of the guests. "Got my first album coming out and everything." 

"That's the most exciting part," Zayn says suddenly. His posture is uncomfortable, because he doesn't have anything to hold onto and Safiya is looking up at him and she's a lot shorter than him, shorter by far. "That's my favourite part." 

"Yeah?" Safiya gives a lopsided grin, white teeth flashes on the right side underneath painted brown lips, the colour his sister wears. 

"Yeah," Zayn says. He clears his throat, and tries to ignore the fact that it's been so long that he has talked to someone who is actually, unapologetically, Muslim. He sees men with beards, and girls in niqabs all the time, and sees them praying asr on the streets (and sometimes wants to join them) but he never talks to them, never reaches out to them with a salaam like he did today, and they would never know he was Muslim beyond the fact that he's half Pakistani. He ignores the fact that he wants to sob because he cannot remember any surah's at all and the other day he wanted to say the shahada but he forgot the words and that his sister sent him a link to watch a Bollywood movie and he forgot how to make tea correctly and when he was talking to his father he forgot the Urdu word for water of all things. 

_ 

Zayn Malik is in front of Safiya, and she feels a little sorry for him. 

He is an international pop star with probably like, millions of dollars in the bank, and she's a just making it girl who lives in a sort of broken down flat in downtown London (that she's honestly quite fond of) but he'd come over here to talk to her specifically, and that gives her the idea that he misses something at least. She's not Pakistani, but she gets the idea he might miss his homeland, or at least its home. So she starts babbling on about what little she's sure they have in common. 

It's a little embarrassing, but she goes on when she's nervous anyway, but now she has a subject she's focusing on. Bollywood of all things, and so she continues, talking about Priyanka Chopra and Aishwarya and about the pretty outfits they wear and then she's talking about the market in London where she swears she saws a lesser known movie star, and d'you reckon she should have asked for a photo? 

He's nodding, smiling like her chatter is comforting, so she keeps talking. 

"You've got an album coming out soon, yeah?" She asks, even if they've just wound down from tour, she reckons. 

"Yeah," he nods. "We've got an album coming out soon." 

"Fun," she grins. "That'll be proper exciting, touring, eh?" 

"Yeah," he shrugs. "It gets lonely though. And you miss things about home." 

"I miss a lot of things about my home," Safiya shrugs. 

"Your home?" He frowns.

"India," she smiles, shaking her head. "You think my accent is here for fun?" 

He must've noticed, Safiya thinks to herself, as a strange expression comes over her face. Her accent isn't exactly subtle, even if some of her British Indian friends do reckon it's cute. And it explains how she grasps at different words well enough. 

"You weren't born here?" Zayn asks her. 

"Nah," Safiya wrinkles her nose. "Don't think I could have handled growing up here honestly. Much too cold, yeah? Nah, my family moved here when I was twelve." 

"Yeah?" Zayn looks surprised. 

_ 

Safiya (the name sounded just like his little sisters at first, and it's comforting) has been talking non stop. He supposes he should have realised that she's not from England, because her v comes out when she says anything in Arabic just like his father's does and it makes him smile just a bit and think of home and staying up all night praying in Ramadan and iftar with his mother as his younger sisters moan about being tired. 

She takes out her phone as it starts to ring, and makes an apologetic face before picking it up and she's talking just as quickly as before, if not quicker, because this is her first tongue. He can read Arabic, not understand it, and she's talking quickly, too quickly, and it's a dialect he's sure so he'd never have a chance, but it's nice to listen to and it sounds just a bit like the masjid with the imam reciting something that is relevant to what is happening and so instead he blinks and looks down at the floor. 

Next to him Safiya's face is contorted, and she hangs up. "So sorry," she says, and she looks genuinely apologetic as she pushes her phone into her bag and zips it close. "I've got to go, my little sister is in a spot of trouble, and I'm the only one she could call up," she rolls her eyes and looks peeved as she scribbles something down on a piece of paper, and presses it into his hands. "Ring me up sometime and we can talk yeah? I don't meet many people like us around this area," she says and leans forward and up to press a kiss to his cheek and then she's walking off. "I'll take you out for tea, Inshallah!"

She calls over his shoulder and the idea sounds good, and Zayn grins. "Alright."


	2. Salat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You return to Him, and He gives you so many opportunities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found that a whole series of people opposed me simply on the grounds that I was a woman. The clerics took to the mosque saying that Pakistan had thrown itself outside the Muslim world and the Muslim ummah by voting for a woman, that a woman had usurped a man's place in the Islamic society. - Benazir Bhutto

 

London tastes of smoke, looks like smoke, and feels like smoke. That's how he'd describe it if he was writing a novel, one where people are sad, sad, sad, and there is chain smoking on balconies, girls with red lipstick and binge drinking in bathtubs. (Honestly, that sounds a bit like his life, innit?) Course, it could also be the lit up paper roll between his fingers. 

 

Honestly, right now, while Bradford felt like it locked him in, it's what he craves. Craves what it gave the world, how his childhood home _sucked_ but it was still home, you know? Even if by the time he was old enough home was somewhere between the empty lot where he lit up and the _masjid_. That's where he dreams of, when the road gets too much and the house is too empty and he doesn't want to listen to a single bar from their songs. But he's in London, and he thinks of moving instead. 

 

Honestly, he'd been excited when he brought the house, but his family had been more. Doniya had promised she would be staying with him _all the time_ and he was going to love having his elder sister around, ay? But Baba had been more excited. His eyes had lit up and he'd called a cousin, someone who was in the city. He'd found out where the nearest masjid was, and where everyone in the whole city was that he knew and figured out there was an MSA and a market and that there was a coffee shop that had Arabic calligraphy on the walls, bright and golden like the forgotten Book at the back of Zayn's shelf. 

 

Maybe that's what brings him here. To the downtown area where the shops aren't shops, they're _bazaar's_. The scarf he's pulled around his neck and the beanie on his head feel too hot all of a sudden, as he steps into a store which has bright, bright scarves, gold stitching everywhere, and he remembers the way his father had brought silks home to his mother in the bad months, and she had cried over them. 

 

A woman rushes up to him immediately, like the store owners always do in these stores. She is wearing a salwar kameez and it's bright and pink and her scarf is sunset orange. She looks like a sunset herself, her skin golden brown, picking up the beading on her outfit, her shoes gold to much. Actually, there's gold everywhere on her, ears and hands and fingers. She starts talking to him in a stream of Hindi and he shakes his head. "I don't speak any," he says, and she looks at him, and nods, eyes crinkling. 

 

"For your wife, yes?" She asks him, pulling out a sheet of blue silk, beading pretty. Not many girls wear blue, Zayn thinks to himself. They wear blue for a reason, but he can't remember what it is. The thought thinks into his stomach, hot and heavy, even as he tries to convince himself that he doesn't have to know that because he isn't a girl. 

 

"I'm not married," he shakes his head. 

 

The woman in front of him smiles. "You have a sister, yes? Or a wife to be? Or your mother?" 

 

She's nice and pushy and looks a little like one of his aunt's with the crinkle around her eyes, and the piercing in her nose is the same golden hoop that one of his cousins has and so he nods, and steps deeper into the store. His eyes catch over the silk, the see through veils, and then he picks out bright reds, dazzling embroidery on them and nods. "I'll get this one yeah?" He turns, and the woman is in front of him, smiling and taking the scarf away from him, pulling it over to her cramped bench where she types it into a cash register. There is a picture of a red brick house, hand drawn behind the counter, bright yellow flowers half the size of the house and 'MAMA' written in capitol letters above the building. Something about it reminds him of his own mother, and he pulls out the blue silk from before, because that suits his mother's colouring more than the warm colours which are common in the store - more than even the deep purples or greens. Soon enough, he has scarves for them all in his arms, more than he can count, for Doniya and Safaa and Waliyha and for this cousin and this and that and his grandmother. He pushes them onto the counter, and the woman beams and folds them up neatly, and Zayn takes in a deep breath and thinks of past _Ramadan's_ and weddings and Doniya's off to Uni party and the pretty dresses and _henna_ and swooping liner he remembers. He remembers how it'd looked when he was a kid, and he thought he was trapped in one of those dramas his aunts liked to watch between the skirts of his sisters. 

 

He doesn't blink at the price, and instead nods, smiles as warmly as he can, and thanks the woman, picking up the bags, and heading out onto the street. It's cold outside, and something in him craves warmth and bare feet on stone and so he steps out, and looks down the street. It's busy, and his breath catches at the idea that he might be caught, but it's Wednesday morning and all the teenage girls are at school. The only people around are aunties and uncles, talking to one another on the street, and boys who are lifting boxes into the back of cars and going about their business, so he relaxes. Trusts the scarf he's wearing to conceal his identity, but then he remember's he's surrounded by so many other people who are _desi_ that there is no need to worry, because here he fits in, and he walks into a cafe. It's Turkish, or something, and he walks to the counter, and orders a coffee, before taking a seat at a couch, where the wall behind him is swathed in fabric. Something about it is comforting. 

 

He takes out his phone, and ignores the texts from the group chat the band has, knowing it's the usual rubbish, and opens up Doniya's contact. He pauses for a moment, before typing out a text for her. _downtown. i got u somethin._ And then he looks at his emails, ignoring the one's from Management and the sort, and looks at a link to a YouTube video one of his cousins has emailed him, along with a stream of _hahahaha_ that makes him roll his eyes. 

 

"Zayn?" Someone says his name and he looks up. In front of him is Safiya, eyes wide, and a smile on her lips. "Salaam alaykum." 

 

He returns the greeting, and can't ignore how _good_ it feels that someone knows his name and greats him properly. 

 

"What are you doing here?" Safiya asks. Today she is wearing a bright skirt in deep green, and it matches the shawl she is wearing as a hijab. She looks all Indian today, not like she's wearing an Arab girl's scarf, and she has a bright grin, teeth flashing, glinting in the dim lighting of this coffee place. 

 

"I was wandering a bit," Zayn shrugs, and looks at her, and how she's standing awkwardly. "You can sit down, you know?" 

 

Safiya smiles, and slides into a seat next to him on the couch, push her small bag onto the table, and turn her body to him, leaning her elbows, enclosed in knitted wool, on the table so she's able to face him. "Thanks," she replies. "It's strange, running into you like this." 

 

"How's your sister?" He asks suddenly, remembering how she'd run off last time he'd seen her. 

 

"She's alright," Safiya rolls her eyes, like the idea is strange, or like her sister gets into trouble often. "Her girlfriend was in out with her and the pair couldn't find a way home, so _I_ got to go get her." 

 

"Sisters tend to do that," he smiles back at her, and it's a friendly moment, filled with mutual understanding as Safiya makes a face like ' _don't I know_.' 

 

"Who're all the scarves for?" She asks, kohl rimmed eyes widening as she turns her gaze onto the plastic bags which are wrapping the silk and tule and cotton he's just brought. 

 

"My sister's," he says, before realising (at the push of Safiya's questioning gaze) that they're a _lot_ for just his sisters, so he exaggerates. "And my cousin's. And my mum." 

 

"I know the _bazaar_ they're from," Safiya smiles, and Zayn grins back, even though _bazaar_ sounds strange here, like it doesn't belong here. 

 

He smiles back, and feels kind of like, guilty, that he didn't call her after meeting her. But the name sits with a number as a contact in his phone, and he knows he meant to. His coffee arrives, and Safiya orders baklava, and whispers something about it being the best food in the world, and Zayn grins into the coffee in front of him, and lets the acrid taste hit the back of his throat. The pair talk, about the scarves in his bags, and about their families, and Safiya tells him about back home, and the mangoes she's craving and gives him some of her baklava. 

 

The pair step outside together, and walk down the street a little. Safiya has a strip of hair showing which he'd thought was as black as his own, only in the dim and cool sun, it lights up, and turns a sort of brown, a golden brown, shining up amber. She turns to him, eyes crinkling with a sense of curiosity. "This kind of weather, it steeps into your bones, right?" 

 

"What do you mean?" Zayn asks before stopping to think it over for himself, like a child still in primary school, asking _why?_ every secound secound. 

 

"I mean, like," Safiya stops walking and turns to him, something in her eyes that is like a fire, starting up with a spark. "This kind of weather steeps into your bones, and the cold follows you everywhere. But the heat, that's only skin deep, right?" 

 

"Yeah," Zayn says. "I've got to get back now, but I'll, I'll call you soon. We should do this again." 

 

"I'd like that," Safiya smiles again and Zayn smiles back, before reaching forward and hugging her, and then moving back to call a car to take him home, as she stalks away. 

 

_ 

 

There's a masjid nearby, and it's nearly time for dhuhr prayer, so that's where Safiya heads. Salaam's ring out, as she adjusts her hijab in the bathroom mirror, and makes _wudu_ , baklava honey stickiness being washed away, and then she makes her way out. Even if this is a masjid where she ends up in a women's only room, there is a woman who recites beautifully, and she likes it more than being shoved to the back of a big hall, a few lines meant to fit all of the women in, which is ridiculous. Instead, she enjoys the idea of having sisters in front of her and behind her and to her left and her right. Her feet pull against the carpet and she slides them out, her shoes discarded behind and to the left, and she takes a breath, clears her mind, and prays. 

 

It's strange, but even in the days where she goes weeks without, something within her always has the time for prayer, needs prayer. It is reflection and she finds the peace that overcomes her as Safiya lowers her body, and knows she is coming back to Allah, coming back to hope and love and peace. 

 

So she sits there, and she feels herself, on her knees and her arms and part of a surah leaving her mouth, and she feels Him. And Safiya doesn't ask for anything more than her family's safety. And she doesn't pray for anything but that which is written for her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a lot of notes from this. Here are some explanations of words and phrases: 
> 
> masjid - the mosque, or religious 'temple' where people go to pray  
> MSA - Muslim Students Association (popular group for Muslim students in Uni or high school)  
> Baba - Urdu for father  
> 'forgotten Book' - the Qu'ran  
> bazaar - reference to a store/ shop in the/ their homelands  
> salwar kameez - a type of outfit men and women wear in India and Pakistan  
> Ramadan - the month Muslim's believe the Qu'ran came to Earth. It is spent fasting (abstaining from food, water, sex) from sunrise to sunset, with many prayers and charity to be done  
> henna - painting on the hands, feet, arms etc of the body with a special ink, and is often associated with religious ceremonies and important occasions for those from areas in asia, africa, and the middle east  
> aunties/ uncles - a term of respect for men and women older than you  
> desi - South Asian  
> salaam alaykum - Peace be with you (greeting to another muslim)  
> hijab - the headscarf Muslim women wear  
> baklava - the best food in the world. a type of pastry made with pistachios and rose water and sugar and drizzled in syrup  
> dhuhr - the early afternoon compulsory prayer  
> wudu - the cleansing ceremony muslim's undertake before praying  
> surah - a section of the Qu'ran (religious text of Islam), much like a chapter  
> Allah - the name used to refer to God by Arab Christians, Jews, Baha'i, or any other who is of an Abrahamic religion (and thus believes in the same God) and also by Muslims worldwide  
> written for her - refers to the Islamic belief that what comes about is what is written, or intended for an individual
> 
> This is very personal. The talk about the masjid and how some make women pray in cramped rooms and at the back is something we Muslimahs face. That is something we fight against. The scarves that Zayn remembers his father bringing home are like the scarves my father brought home in the bad months - scraps of silk with our people's dot art colouring the white fabric. It talks about returning to Him, as we always do. It's got the hint of smoke and smoking that reminds me of growing up. This is such a personal piece for me, with just a hint of what it feels like to be in Islam. Look forward to conversations with Zayn's mother next, and she will have to display for me what it's like to be the girl who came into Islam. Who wasn't born into it. 
> 
> Thank you all, the response to this has been amazing. Alhumdulillah, I am so blessed. I only hope that Mr Malik is happy in his life, and is with Him, as I wish for all my brothers and sisters.


	3. Alhumdulilah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'If you go anywhere, even paradise, you will miss your home.' Malala Yousafzai

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussions of suicide and depression, although not graphic. Similarly discussions of xenophobia and anti Islam hatred.

He comes home, of course. 

He can't bear to be separated from his family from too long. Sometimes, even an hour feels too long, after the tours which never seem to end and the long nights and the no sleep and the weak tea and burgers and too many pop songs whose beats are so repetitive and constant they ring in his head after he tries to go to sleep. Constant and not like the way the Bollywood songs are. Constant like inescapable, like the traffic outside in a tiny flat in London, like the yammering of Safaa and Waliyha to each other until the early hours of the morning, like his mother vacuuming the house when he's trying to study. Constant and very nearly painful. 

So he comes home. The rest of the boys are still in London, and they wanted him to stay with them, but. He's missed things. The way that they don't. Like, they do something for all of their families birthdays and they always get a break for Christmas and Easter but, it's not the same for him is it? It never is. Everything is always different for him, since the moment he started to breathe. 

He's missed cousins and aunties birthdays. It's it might not sound too bad but. It is, and like. He missed his cousins wedding. Which is a big deal, honestly, and he can't believe that he's missed it for a band he's a part of, or like fans that have insulted him, or a company that low-key hates him and just wants to make money off him. 

None of that is something he ought to be proud of. 

So he goes back home and he looks at his mother, who nearly collapses when he arrives on the door, asks why he didn't call. "Cause you woulda done something stupid, like started cleaning and cooking," he says, before embracing her tightly, squeezing her round the middle the way a couple of years ago he would have been horrifically embarrassed by. "I missed you," he whispers into her ear instead of saying that, and he thinks she's crying, but he can't bear that, so instead he just holds her close for a little longer. 

"Come in," she says finally, pulling back, and he thinks her eyes are tinged with red. But it's okay, because he won't say anything and he knows that's how she likes it, likes to act like she's still the one who cares for him, like he's still a child, or a kid who comes home from uni every holidays and rings every secound night and Skypes them all on every Sunday at three o'clock without fail. Maybe he goes to school with one of his cousins in this dreamworld, and they all use the group chat to tease each of them. Maybe he's got a girlfriend back at uni, who has got black hair instead of blonde and she laughs loudly, and it's not pretty but it's striking and he's nervous about telling his parents about her. 

But instead he steps inside and he's wearing a watch which is expensive, which is nice, the nicest thing he probably owns and a gift from a friend. And. He's not just a kid on break from uni is he? But stepping back home, looking at the gold and black calligraphy on the walls and smelling his Mum's cooking. He'd give it all up, just for a moment more time with them every day, a minute with any of them, all of them, in a heartbeat if he could. 

Not to sound ungrateful, because he is, honestly, alhumdulillah, but sometimes he thinks it's just because he's weak and can't divide his time well. 

But thinking about that only makes it worse, so he internally gives thanks that this house is his family's home now, that the opportunity which sometimes feels like selling his soul and body and voice has given his family safety and joy and hope. 

But then Safaa's jumping into his arms, and he's pushed back a bit and hugs her tighter than he's held anything ever in his life. She's not one for lots of hugs though, so she quickly squirms out of his arms and is racing off to the kitchen. Waliyha hangs back, almost shy, and she looks different. Longer hair, make up on her face, a bit taller. "Hello," she looks down, hesitant and graceful, when he has a series of texts from her which detail the truth in that she's a awfully mischievous and teases him like no one else would dare, not even Doniya. 

"What, you're not going to hug your brother?" He asks, raising an eyebrow at her, and she breaks into a smile, looking up at him and bounding over, embracing him as tightly as he had embraced Safaa.

"I missed you," she murmurs instead into his shoulder, and it's like, enough to think things would be different? Or, did she not remember what it was like when they were together? 

The thought terrifies him so he pushed it to the back of her mind. "I missed you too." 

"Come eat," Waliyha pulls him into the kitchen, her dark hair swishing at the small of her back, her feet bare on the wood floor. "Mum's not made anything special, but there is a biriyani in the fridge I think." 

"That sounds wonderful," Zayn says, and he's honest. 

_ 

Safiya's like, she's actually going to explode. Honest. 

Because somewhere between sending a group email to her friends (which slipped from English to Arabic in her excitement at one stage) and screaming on the phone to her sister, she's released a single. A single with a thumping beat for a dance club and a set of lyrics that is catchy as it should be and a clear voice for the whole time. 

And it's, well, it's going well. There are hits on it. 

There are people following her in Twitter (which means she actually has to delete some Tweets which she's not so proud of), in hundreds. Her other videos, covers filmed by friends when she was singing at bars, are gaining hits rapidly. It's all like, coming together in a matter of minutes, and she's proper hyperventilating or something. 

_ 

It's his sister who shows him the clip. 

He's come home, talked to his parents, and sisters, and spent time with them, like he hasn't in awhile. And Waliyha pulls him down to looks at a video. 

It starts with a girl sitting at a table, her face turning away from the camera, her red scarf just covering the knot where her hair plaited, and it's quiet. Too quiet. Because then there's a beat that starts and it keeps going, before a sweet melody joins it. It'd sound sickly sweet, the melody by itself, like the pop music that is beloved by the Southern American states. But it's set off with the beat and then all of a sudden, it's Safiya on screen, swirling, and circling her hips. 

It's unapologetic. She's singing in English of course (and she has a good voice, Zayn thinks to himself) but apart from the sugary words and tone of her voice, it could have been taken straight from a Bollywood movie. 

Waliyha grins while watching the whole thing. "Good, innit?" 

"Yeah," he grins at her, and reaches over to ruffle her hair. 

Waliyha scowls, and shoves his arm. "Don't touch my hair," she pouts, and he tugs on it lightly, only for her to stick her tongue out at him. 

It's just him at the kitchen table then, and then he pulls his phone out, thinking he should let Safiya know he's seen it. Because it's got to him. It's got to him so badly. The fact is, he's abandoned who is in so many aspects. Is Baba disappointed in him? Can he still come home? Does Safaa remember him reading to her when she was younger? 

And then his mum is bursting into the kitchen, loaves and milk in her arms as she struggles to carry all of the bags of shopping and he jumps up to help her. 

"Thank you love," she smiles at him, sweet, and well, it's bittersweet innit? 

"No problem, yeah?" He ducks his head, but grins back, and puts the milk in the fridge, next to the nasty juice his sister likes, and looks at the marinating chicken in fridge. "How was the store?" 

"Busy," his mum says, smiling at him. "How've you been by the way? I haven't really heard from you in awhile." 

"What do you mean?" Zayn asks quickly, like, he's been talking to her all the time, and he told her, everything's fine. 

"I mean, you may fall everyone else honey, but I'm your Mum. I know you. I've known you for longer than anyone else," she looks in his eyes, slides into the chair next to him, holds his hand in hers. "What's wrong?" 

And it's like everything has come crashing around him, like the walls he's fenced himself into, carved painstakingly until he was some sort of stereotype that made it easy, like it was what made him a man, have crashed around him, like he can hear the ocean roaring in his ears after years of silence. 

"It's so hard," he says suddenly. "Like. Being alone. I can't remember the last time I prayed, astigfirullah." (If tears start to well up then, no one has to know.) "It's so lonely. I feel like I can't tell anyone, like no one else will understand. I'm surrounded by four other guys all the time - and I love them, like, they're my mates but like. I'm so lonely. I have all of these people always saying stuff and about like. About you guys. You and Baba, and that's not okay. And it doesn't happen to the others, like they're not judged by their family's actions, and vice versa - they. They got a clean slate. They got to choose who they wanted to be. And I didn't. I have to carry this burden all alone." 

"All alone?" his Mum looks at him with a heartbreaking smile on her face. "You're never really alone. Don't you think I know how you feel better than anyone? Don't you think I've been through all of this before?" 

He looks at her, confused, wonder if she's lost her memories or something and thinks she was a member of the Spice Girls or something and - oh. 

"I thought I was so alone," his Mum's got tears in her eyes and it's heartbreaking to watch such pain on her face. "I thought I was so alone. My parents were. They were so mad at me. They hated me. They hated everything I had chosen. I fell into myself, so deeply sometimes it took all I had to wake up. But I did, and I remembered I chose love. That even when I thought I was alone, I was still with Him. And when I craved human contact, when I wanted company more than Him, someone I could go out to lunch with and who would talk back to me, I had brothers and sisters. More than I could count. So you're never alone." 

She's proper crying now, tears dripping down her face, and like. Zayn's always known it was hard for her, but. He chose to leave his family, and he knows he can always come back, knows they'll always come to his wedding no matter what. He struggles to think what it would be like for his parents to hate his decision so much they'd leave him forever. He doesn't think there is anything in the world he could do that would make them do that. They've always loved him, unconditionally, and his Mum's parents didn't. It would have been so hard, he realises. So unbelievably hard. 

She clears her throat, and straightens her back, pulls back from him a little, and looks him in the eye. "I made that sacrifice - my family - for love. For Him. And you couldn't pick your race, you didn't pick your religion, and that's what they use against you. But you're not alone. And if you wanted to abandon your faith - I'm not one who can judge. But I hope you don't baby. I hope you choose love above all. You're not alone. You're not alone at all. And it's gonna be hard. It will be. Harder than you deserve, harder than is fair. You'll get called names honey. You'll get called names and face more scrutiny than anyone else. But you would have faced that anywhere. Here, or London, wherever. But I love you. God loves you. Your sister's do. Your father. Everyone who knows you, truly knows you does. You have a good heart. I don't tell you that enough, I don't want you to get a big head, but you do good things. You truly help people. You have such a big heart I worry that it will get crushed by the world, harden in the face of pain. But don't let it love. Let it soften, always more." 

"Thank you," Zayn says, and means it. And if there are tears in his eyes, there are no cameras here, no reporters to make snide murmurs and comments. It's just his Mum. It's just the woman he respects like life itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm proper crying now too. 
> 
> This is deeply personal for me. I grew up in an impoverished Indigenous Australian community. It was a harsh reality, coming to the city, that I was neither seen as Indigenous Australian as a mixed individual, nor were my cousins seen as people. As such, race has always been sensitive and difficult for me to deal with personally. 
> 
> I lost someone I loved deeply in the beginning of my teenage years. As such, I fell into a deep depression and was extremely suicidal. In fact, as I was preparing to take my life, the Lord visited me, and I was saved alhumdulillah. 
> 
> However, conversion was not easy. Finding the love I have needed was not easy. Trying to learn everything - to this day I do not know all my prayers nor can I regularly pray them all - was far from easy, and dealing with my parents has been very difficult. Indeed, I have had to accept I will have to remove myself from their lives as I grow older in order to be able to be the best person I want to be. 
> 
> I claim no knowledge of Mrs Malik's relationship with her parents nor how her and her faith are, but I would like to take this opportunity to ask all of my 'born' Muslim readers to please take the time to help reverts if you are blessed with an opportunity. For many of us, our families have abandoned us out of hatred of our religion and let it blind them to the love that we have for them and our faith. 
> 
> I wish the Malik family all of my happiness and love, and hope that they are strong as a family and full of love and support. I also wish to take this opportunity to say I give Mr Malik all my support as he deals with racism and xenophobia due to his celebrity nature and race and religion. I wish him all the best and hope that ignorance will be eradicated. 
> 
> Much love,  
> Louisa

**Author's Note:**

> So this is inspired by a bunch of things. Mostly by Zayn Malik of course, but also by isolation. By the fact that I think he's so alone. By missing jummah prayer and crying because it's where I feel at home. By people calling out to me in the street 'sister' and a connection with strangers. By the fact that I want nothing more in this world than to eat my grandmothers food and I never will. By a friends 'desi zayn' tag (shoutout to zeina prongsvssquid) and crying over how people who have a homeland over the sea know one another in intimate ways beyond the body. By someone telling me how beautiful Islam is when every single Muslim prays with you. And it's inspired by loneliness. Below are a list of words for my non Muslim friends: 
> 
> hijab - the headscarf Muslim women wear  
> Salaam - Peace be with you (greeting to another muslim)  
> Wa alaykum as salaam - returning greetings to above  
> niqabs - black clothing muslim women wear which shows only the eyes  
> asr - a prayer which is mandatory for Muslims  
> surah - a section of the Qu'ran (religious text of Islam), much like a chapter  
> shahada - the oath Muslim's take which makes them Muslim  
> masjid - the mosque, or religious 'temple' where people go to pray  
> Ramadan - the month Muslim's believe the Qu'ran came to Earth. It is spent fasting (abstaining from food, water, sex) from sunrise to sunset, with many prayers and charity to be done  
> iftar - the meal which breaks the fast after a day of fasting  
> inshallah - 'by Allah' 'Allah willing' type of saying


End file.
